


Blind Hope

by Rosie_Dayze



Category: Bright (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bigotry & Prejudice, Cute, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Multi, Orcs, Other, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-07-28 18:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16246940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: After not hearing from Nick Jakoby for almost two weeks you are ready to give up on hearing from him ever again. That is, of course, until a gift shows up at your workplace.This is the beginning of what *might* be a multi chapter youfic. I've done my best to keep the "you" nameless and genderless.Thank you to notarealtoad and susiphalange for their support. It means the world to me.





	1. Chapter 1

You are engrossed in work when you hear someone call your name. By the sound of it, it isn't the first time they've tried getting your attention. You look up from your desk and see a courier in a red and blue uniform holding up a bouquet that can only be described as extravagant. Roses of every available color mingle with babies breath and other, smaller flowers that you don't know the names of.  
  
“If you could...just sign here?” The courier is doing their best to sound professional, but you get the feeling that the flowers are heavy and there are other deliveries to make. You sign for the flowers. The courier, relieved of his duty, puts them on your desk and absconds.  
Transfixed, you run your finger across the petal of a thumb-sized rose so dark blue it's nearly purple. It's like dewy satin beneath your touch. The bloom opens and a soft floral scent fills the room. Every blush and movement of the petals is marked by a silver bell chime, filling your work space with the most delicate music. These aren't just flowers, you realize. They are elven roses. They'll continue to bloom for a whole year, maybe longer with a bit of care, and they carry song as well as scent.  
  
They are also, ridiculously expensive.

  
“What...on earth?” June's voice cuts through your reverie.  
  
Bashfully, you whirl around, hoping against hope that you can block out the sight of your unexpected gift. “I...uhm...”  
  
But June's already there, manicured fingers on her lemon yellow hips. You decided long ago that June was pretty much the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. An amalgam of American genetics mingled with a dash of magic gave her rich brown skin and hazel eyes and hair so dark and curly that the sun could get lost in it. Her eyes narrow and then go wide  
  
“Are those what I think they are?” she asks in a voice made for radio.  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
She rolls her eyes and skims past you. Gentle as can be she bends to a blossom that matches her outfit and takes a deep whiff. Her lips, glossy and bright, curl into a cat like smile. “ _Entarnian_ ,” she says in perfect elfish. The tiniest points in her ears, nearly invisible beneath the wealth of her hair, belie a distant heritage. “Oh, sweetie, these are incredible.”  
  
You assumed as much, but getting June's stamp of approval means that these flowers are pretty much exactly as expensive as you thought they were.  
  
“I was afraid of that.”  
  
June blinks. “Afraid? Why?” She pulls away from the arrangement. “Who are they from?”  
  
You bite your lip. Honestly, you aren't sure. You've been on a lot of dates in the past few months, and only one of them went well. No, you admit. It was perfect. Sure, it was just dinner, and a walk, but you'd really felt something. You'd thought he had too, but then he didn't call. He didn't text. It's been nine days since you heard anything from Nick Jaokby and you are pretty sure you aren't going to hear from him ever again. At first, you were angry about it. Now you're just confused.  
  
“I don't know. I went on a date with that banker last night.”  
  
June's nose wrinkles. “The thrice-divorced? Oh...sweetie.”  
  
You shrug. You hadn't really wanted to go on the date either, but you had hoped that dinner and a show would pull you out of this five day funk you've been feeling. It hadn't. Mr. Peter Prescott was pretty much everything you dislike in a potential partner. It wasn't his looks, those were plastic perfect, it was everything else about him. He'd spent the first ten minutes of your date demanding to know if you'd even slept with an elf and it had pretty much gone downhill from there.  
  
You desperately hope that the flowers aren't from him, but they seem like exactly the kind of thing he might send in the hopes of guilting you into a second date. The very thought of it makes your stomach turn sour.  
  
“I don't know,” you repeat.  
  
“Well, only one way to find out.” Quick as a lash June's hand dives into the greenery. The roses chime merrily, creating delicate music. Moments later her hand reappears, clutching a tiny, pink card between her fingers. “There we are.”  
  
You see your name written in a hurried script. It's not the fine, practiced hand of a florist, but there is something charming about it all the same. June passes it to you.  
  
“Open it.”  
  
You raise your brow. “You aren't the boss of me.”  
  
It's not true, and you both know it. June, who is your best friend, is also your direct superior. She just crosses her arms and gives you a long, deadpan look.  
“Alright, alright.” You tug at the envelope flap and a little card spills out. It's not particularly large, but you think it's bigger than the average floral notecard.  
  
You hesitate to open it. Right now the note, and the flowers, could be from anyone. Right now they are Schrodinger's flowers, and you kind of like them that way. Perhaps someone from your family is celebrating, and everyone you are related to got a bunch of overpriced, musical flowers. Maybe they are from a secret admirer who is practically perfect in every way. Maybe...just maybe...they are from who you'd really like them to be from.  
  
You don't even realize you are holding your breath when you open the card.  
__  
I wanted to say I'm sorry The note begins. Your heart gives a hopeful leap.  
_Ward told me that I wasn't supposed to call for three days or I'd look stupid. I looked stupid anyway because I broke my phone when putting my warbag into my locker. I didn't know how to say I'm sorry. Ward said to send flowers. I didn't know what kind. I hope these are okay._  
  
At the very bottom of the card, hastily scrawled in what little space was left, is a phone number.  
  
“Well now. That explains it.”  
  
You bite your lip. You want to believe it. You really do but there is that tiny, ugly voice in the back of your head screaming at the top of its anxiety crafted lungs that breaking a phone doesn't delete all the information. He could have found another way to get your number. Right?  
  
And yet, maybe he couldn't. Or maybe he was nervous. Or maybe...  
  
“Stop it,” June says.  
  
You look up from the card. “Stop what?”  
  
“Stop thinking whatever you are thinking that's putting that look in your eyes.”  
  
You close the card. “What look?”  
  
“The one that says you are going to overthink whatever that card says until you make yourself sick.” Gingerly she plucks the card from your grasp. You let her take it. As she reads it her lips curve. Her eyes go bright. “Awww!”  
  
You roll your eyes; part amused, part annoyed. You wish that you had the same reaction. You wish the only thing you felt was the sweet joy that is practically beaming out of June's demielf eyes.  
  
“He could have called you, could have gotten my number all over again like he did before.”  
  
June's smile wilts. “Don't do this.” She sighs and deposits the note on your desk. “I am begging you not to do this.”  
  
“Do what?” You cross your arms. The turmoil of emotions that's been stirring in you for nine days bubbles up inside your chest. “Not take what some guy I went on one date with says happened?”  
  
“Nick isn't just 'some guy' and you know it.”  
  
“I had a four-hour conversation with him.” You aren't sure if you are telling her or yourself. “I was a nice conversation, but that's all it was.”  
  
She narrows her eyes at you. June, despite being no more than two months older than you, has this amazing mom expression. It's that particular mix of I-care-about-you and you're-being-dumb that only the most nurturing of people can master without even trying. She crosses one Jimmy Choo clad foot over the other and takes in a slow breath. “Call him.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I know you are already talking yourself out of it. You are already coming up with seven different excuses of why it can wait until later.”  
  
“I'm working.” You point at your desk.  
  
“No you aren't. You are officially on break.”  
  
“I already-”  
  
“I swear to god if you don't call him I will fire you.”  
  
You return her direct look with one of your own. “No you won't.”  
  
She sighs. Her shoulders drop an inch or so. She reaches behind her and picks up the card. “You're right." She holds up one hand in surrender. "Bluff called. But darling, I love you nearly as much as I love my wife and I am telling you that by second-guessing and over thinking you are going to do nothing but hurt yourself.” She presses the card to your hands. “You don't have to call him right now. Take what time you think you need but please, I'm begging you.” She touches a single finger to your forehead. “Stop thinking the worst of people.”  
  
She squeezes your shoulder and walks away to leave you with your own thoughts.  
  
You don't think the worst of people, honestly. You just know that sometimes people are the absolute worst. Some more than others. It's printed clearly on the front page of newspapers, emblazoned across social media. It's all there, plain as day. You aren't Nick, you aren't sure that everyone is just trying their best.  
  
Your thoughts come to a crash behind your eyes. Nick. The memory of him saying those words with the fervent tone of a true believer rolls through you. He said it so honestly, with such genuine hope that you found yourself looking at the world a little differently. You started to notice things, nice things. At least for the first few days. Then he hadn't called and you'd stopped looking.  
  
You sigh to yourself. So what. So he didn't call. It was only nine days, not the totality of your existence. Nine days was nothing.  
  
Even so, that ugly voice won't shut up.  
  
You spend the rest of the day at your desk. At five o'clock you gather up your things, including the flowers and take the trolly home. You stop at your favorite deli and pick up a sandwich for dinner. You give half of it to the little old lady who lives in the apartment next to you. She comments on your flowers, asks about who sent them. You give a vague “oh, no one” answer before retreating to the sanctuary of your single-bedroom apartment.  
  
You read and reread the note a thousand times. You come up with worst case scenarios and fairy tale solutions. You binge watch a television show and think about adopting a pet. You eat your sandwich. You smell the roses.  
  
“Damnit,” you mutter as you pick up your phone. You dial the first four numbers and then erase them. You dial the first five and erase those two. You toss your phone down and pull your laptop into your lap so you can look at pet adoption sites and social media pages. The sandwich in your belly starts to feel like lead.  
If it had been someone else you might have been amused, maybe flattered, But this wasn't someone else. This was Nick Jakoby. You spent four hours in his company and started to see the whole world differently. You saw more kindness and hope than you ever expected to. You saw a glimpse of what it might have been like to see things the way you think he does.  
  
And then he didn't call. Oh, you'd think about calling him. You'd even picked up the phone. He'd said that he'd get in touch with you and you had believed him. After all the liars and the idiots and the buffoons and thrice divorced bankers you had wholehartedly believed him. You had believed he'd want to see you. That you would wake up and there would be text asking you for coffee, or asking if you wanted to go for another walk. But nothing had happened. One day turned into two, and two had turned into nine and by the end of it all you hated him for not keeping his promise.  
  
But more than that you'd hated yourself for not sucking down your own anxiety and reaching out to him first.  
  
“Damnit,” you snarl and pick up the phone. Before you can stop yourself you are jabbing his number into your phone hard enough to make the screen rainbow.  
__  
Ring  
  
This is dumb, you tell yourself. You are in a bad mood. You should not call him right now. You should hang up. Wait for your mood to settle. June is right. You overthink things. You drag yourself down. You let your hope for the best get drowned out by your expectancy of the worst.  
__  
Ring  
What are you even going to say if he picks up? That you've missed him? It'd be the truth. You have missed him. But that's not the point. Maybe you should tell him you are angry that you haven't heard from him. You've been worried. That would be true too. But is it the whole truth? Nothing but?  
__  
Ring

  
The call connects with a brief click and smoke sound. The first thing you hear is his breath, a sharp intake of air that sounds hopeful. He says your name like a prayer. You sag against your couch, pull a pillow into your lap and push your phone harder against your ear like that can somehow bring him closer.  
  
“Nick?” you ask.  
  
“I am so glad you called.” He says it the way he says everything. Like he means it.  
  
“I am too.”


	2. Late Night Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter took so long to come out. I went back and forth on what, exactly, was going to happen. I finally settled on this. There is a slow story building. Thank you to everyone for your incredible words, and patience.

“I'm sorry-” he starts.

“I wanted to-” you say at the same time. His words and yours overlap, mingle, and fall apart. The laughter that follows is tight, like the both of you are afraid to be amused or angry or something in between. But, beneath that, hope blooms. If you can laugh about something so simple as talking over one another, then maybe there is more between the two of you than apologetic flowers and wasted days. 

“I'm sorry,” he says again, softly. It's amazing how someone with such a gruff voice can sound so gentle. 

“You go first.” You pull your legs beneath you for comfort. Or stability. Or perhaps a little bit of both. When that's not enough you pull a blanket across you. It's soft, and the feel of it as you brush your fingers anxiously back and forth gives your fingers something to do and sets your mind at ease. A sliver of moonlight turns the fabric silver. When he remains quiet, you push. “Please.” 

“I should have found a way to call you sooner.” He lets out an uneven breath that you can almost feel through the distance of the telephone. 

You chew on your lip, twist the blanket between your fingers. “Why didn't you?”

“I broke my phone.” There is something about the way he says it. The words are decidedly flat, like he's practiced the words a thousand times. It makes you uncertain of their authenticity. 

“It's a funny thing,” you say, plucking at a piece of invisible lint. “You're a pretty careful guy. I noticed that during our walk. You seem to be pretty aware of your strength, Nick.” 

The silence stretches again, this time it's heavier. Anxiously you tug the blanket off your legs and readjust your legs. It's like you've suddenly forgotten how your body works, like you can't remember how you like to sit. Every position you try to take feels awkward and uncomfortable. 

“Well, I didn't break it. Johannson broke it.” 

You raise your brow and go still. Your limbs don't matter anymore. “Johannson?” 

“A co-worker. He was...he was messing around.” The words are cool, the amusement forced. You think the huff of air that follows is supposed to be a laugh but it is empty of amusement. 

“Like a joke?” 

“Yeah. A joke.” 

You chew on your lip for a moment. There is a weight in your chest that you can't put a name to, but you think you know why it is there. “Hey, Nick?” 

“Yeah?”

“You aren't a very good liar. If you don't want to tell me everything, you don't have to. But don't lie. Please?” 

The sound of his pacing echoes through the phone. That feeling in your chest grows heavier. Had you said too much? Pushed too hard? After all, one date didn't necessarily mean he had to explain everything in his life to you. And yet, you think as you slide from the couch to do a little pacing of your own, it seems really important that you know what happened, and understand. Nine days felt like forever, and you want, maybe even need, an explanation. 

“I'm sorry,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“It's like that thing that frat houses do to new members. You know, to make sure they are letting the right people in.” You wonder if he's trying to convince himself, or you. “It's normal. It's...funny.” 

“Breaking your personal property?” You come to a stop in the middle of your living room and switch the phone from one ear to the other. 

“Well, he thought it was funny,” Nick finally says. "So did everyone else." 

There was a universe of hurt in those few words. It staggers your heart in a way you did not expect. You suddenly wish he were right there, rather than halfway across the city. Though, to be fair, you have no idea what you might do to fix the pain you heard. 

“Oh, Nick-” 

“It's fine. Really.” 

It's not, and you know it's not. You are pretty sure he knows that too. Anxiety and frustration carry you into the kitchen. Your eyes land on the roses. Their colors really are striking. The more you look, the more you notice. Pink petals have veins of blue and green weaving their way through them. The yellow ones have the slightest hint of silver dappled along the stems. The orange blossoms are tipped ever so slightly with red. They remind you of his eyes. Your lips curl ever so slightly. Slowly you reach out and touch one. For a moment nothing happens, and then, through the grace of magic, the petals deepen in hue. It's like a blush. 

“Ward told you to send me flowers?” you ask. It's an olive branch. He doesn't want to talk about it, and you don't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is. 

“I knew you'd be mad. I wanted to say I was sorry. I didn't know what to do for a human.” He pauses. “That sounds terrible.” 

Curiosity has you tilting your head. “What would you do if I were an orc?” 

“Well, three hundred years ago I'd have pillaged the home of someone who had trespassed against you and stolen something that you wanted.” 

It's no easy thing to picture Nick pillaging anything. You doubt you've ever met such a law abiding citizen. “Well, that's both illegal and romantic.” 

The laughter that rings through the phone is warm. It fills you from your ear to your toes. You pluck the orange blossom from the bouquet and run it over your lips. You remember the way he kissed you and that warmth becomes a tingle. 

“Today,” he says, “if you were an orc, what I'd want wouldn't matter.” 

“Why not?” The moment the words are out of your mouth you know they are the wrong ones to ask. “I'm sorry, that was rude wasn't it?” 

He sighs. “It's okay. I just...” 

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Nick. Honestly.” 

“No. No, you deserve to know.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what Clan Law is?” 

Not really, you want to say, but that's not ultimately true. You've heard about it on the news. Journalists toss the phrase around whenever there is a confrontation in orc heavy locations. It's a theme in orcish music, and during your orc language studies it was only lightly touched on because, as the teacher explained, humans just couldn't understand. Moreover, you tried to do a little research after your first date with Nick, but the thought of admitting that makes your cheeks flush in embarrassment. 

“I know a little,” you finally admit. “But I'd prefer to hear your explanation.” 

“Clan Law is...it's important,” he tries to explain. “No, that's not right. Hold on. I haven't tried to explain clan law since I was a kid.” He clears his throat. And, when that isn't enough, he coughs. “For most orcs, nothing matters more than your clan, and the stories of your clan. Being able to trace your blood back to someone who did something great is the best thing an orc can offer to his clan. More than that, those same great heroes set down our Laws. Telling us what we could and couldn't do and more.” His words, which had been picking up speed, come to a sudden halt. “Clan Law is supposed to decide everything an orc does.” 

“Okay.” You turn the words over in your mind. You think you understand, at least the surface idea, if not the complexities. 

“Laws can change a little, from one clan to the next. But, you know, if you can't trace your line back, if you've never done anything heroic or great, you aren't Blooded.” 

He says blooded like it ought to be capitalized, like it needs its own definition in a dictionary. 

“You are going to have to explain that one to me too.” 

“Blooded is something I'm not,” he finally spits out. It's a toss up if this bothers him more or less than Johannson breaking Nick's phone. “My father's not, my mother's not. We aren't welcome among most clans because of our round teeth.” 

Your heart feels heavy. A piece of the puzzle that is Nick Jakoby falls into place. Here was a man who wasn't accepted by humans for being an orc, and yet wasn't orcish enough for that either. Here was a man who had clung to the idea of being a cop, and yet there was at least one man on the squad who wasn't making Nick feel welcome there either. Suddenly the fact that he hadn't called no longer matters to you. 

“Well, on the plus side,” you say, trying your best to sound light, “You send excellent flowers.” 

“You mean it?” he asks. 

“Enough that I am seriously thinking about asking you out on a date this weekend.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, something extra cheesy, I think.” You run the rose across your own cheek. “I mean, we covered the traditional dinner date. Maybe a movie next?” 

“I could do a movie,” he says. “I do the night shift this Friday.” 

“Saturday night? Or Sunday morning?” you offer. 

“Saturday night.” He nearly pounces on the offer. “I'd really like that.” 

“I would too.” You realize you are grinning. You spin the rose through the air. “And Nick?” 

“Yeah?”

“Feel free to call me every day between now and then.”


	3. Streetside Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little research, and a little jealousy.

Your life takes on a happy rhythm the next few days. The stark familiarly of eat, sleep, work, friendly chats with June, and quiet evenings at home intermingle with the rush of getting to know Nick. You wake up every morning with a text from him, usually something short, simple and awkward. But, in their own strange way, they give you an insight into orcs in general, and Nick in particular. 

Hope you slept well, one says, I know that humans like long sleep. 

You, with curiosity piqued, decided to research orc sleeping habits. According to Wikipedia, being the best/worst place for information, orcs prefer to sleep twice a day, for four hours at a time. When you ask Nick about this he says that its true, but some orcs have to shift their sleeping schedules for work. 

Another day he sent: Dreamed of you. You were dancing to ----- 

What followed was a series of letters that you recognized as Vukht from your orc language lessons. Orcish, more traditionally known as Bodzvokhan, had its own alphabet, Vukht, though it intermingled with Russian. Not surprising, you think, considering that orcs came from the Pripet Marshes. You, after getting home from work that evening, pulled down your old notes and rooted through them in order to do some amateur translations. 

Megzor you decide after shifting the letters from Vukht to Cyrillic, and from there you determine that he is saying Bad Blood. Feeling like a sleuth of the highest caliber you type Bad Blood and Orc into your search engine and come up with a popular band. Ten minutes later you have a playlist. They aren't half bad, and, after surprising him with some of the lyrics, he confesses that they are his favorite band. 

Do you dance? You asked that night. 

Only if you ask really nicely.

Are you bad at it? 

Horrible. 

You fall asleep later imagining dancing with Nick Jakoby. In your dreams he isn't horrible, not even bad. In your dreams, he's perfection. 

~~~~~~~~~

“Hey stranger!” A familiar face calls as you are locking your door Saturday evening. You are on your way out the door, ready for your date. You find yourself staring into the face of Alex Finn, your neighbor. Once upon a time, just after Alex moved in, the two of you had tried to date. Alex had seemed like a perfect match in that cute, educated, and financially secure kind of way. Too bad that neither of you had felt even the tickle of a spark. 

“Hey, Alex!” You smile. 

His big brown eyes sweep you over from crown to toe and back up. “You are looking fantastic.” 

You brush your fingers over a pair of fitted slacks and buttoned down top. “Really? Promise?” 

“Would I lie?” 

“If you thought it meant getting my corner apartment you might.” 

He chuckles. “Wont argue that. Date?” 

“Yeah, date number two. It's been a while since I had one of those.” You pause, and notice that Alex is dressed up too. “You?” 

“Dinner with mom. Pretty sure she's setting me up.” He rolls his eyes to the sky. “Again.” 

You find yourself thinking back to being set up with Nick. The anxiety, the frustration, the sudden, unexpected interest. 

“Give her a break,” you find yourself saying. “You never know who she might bring.” 

He holds up hands in mock surrender. “If I ever make it to a second date, I might agree with you.” 

Your conversation falls into safer topics as you share the elevator on the way to the first floor. You ask about Gimli, his dog, and he asks about good books you've read lately. It takes you all the way to the sidewalk, and, once there, your heart stops. 

You aren't sure if it's the carefully pressed charcoal gray slacks, the dark, crimson red button down top, or the coppery three-button vest that catches your eyes first, but taking the way the outfit clings and breaths has your mouth going dry. A pair of thick, dark rimmed glasses are perched on his broad nose. They shift as his ears give a little wiggle. 

“Hey,” he says, half breathless. 

“Hi,” you respond, once you remember that you are supposed to speak. 

“You...you look great.” 

You almost laugh. How can he even notice how you look when he's standing there, looking like he walked off the cover of some women's interest magazine. 

“You too.” 

For a second you just stand there, staring into one another's eyes. The whole of the city seems to fade away, leaving just the pair of you. Even from the distance of a foot and a half you feel utterly aware of him. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him, run your fingers over the curve of his ear, or down the line of his chest. How easy would it be to flick open all of those buttons and leave him bare chested and- 

“I'm Alex Finn, I'm just a friendly neighbor.” 

Nick's eyes tear themselves away from yours. A strange flicker runs through them as he takes in Alex. 

“Neighbor?” he asks. 

“Alex, this is Nick. We're dating.” 

Alex's face goes through several stages of feelings, and not all of them you understand. Confusion is easy, then something that you might call fear, and then, finally, settling on concerned amusement. Alex extends his hand to Nick. 

“You must be something special to land this one.” 

Nick looks down, his ears twitching. “I don't know about-” 

“He is,” you say, taking Nick's hand. “He definitely is.” 

The look Nick gives you is enough to turn your heart into half formed jelly. His fingers lace with yours and all the days that you spent worrying about imagining something just melt away. 

“Have fun you two,” Alex says, waving you both goodbye. 

You turn to Nick, prepared to do just that, but find that Nick is hesitating. His sunset colored eyes are focused on the retreating back of Alex. 

“Hey,” you say, tugging gently. “You okay?” 

“You two dated?” 

You blink, surprised. “We went on a date, once, almost four years ago. It was uncomfortable. Why?” You tug again until he looks at you. “Are you jealous?” 

His lips draw back over his teeth for just a moment. His nose twitches. “I...smelled...you when you walked off the elevator.” 

It takes you a long minute to figure out exactly what he is saying. And then you laugh. “You smelled...lust.” 

He shrugs, and looks away again. You have two choices. You could be annoyed that he was jealous about Nick, or you could be amused. You settled for something between the two and give a tug on his copper colored vest. 

“Well, that could be because I shared a thirty second elevator ride with a friend and neighbor, someone I've never had any sexual feelings for. Or, it could be because the first thing I saw when I stepped off that elevator was the hottest guy in this entire city wearing...” You tug on the top button of the vest. “...all of this.” 

His eyes find yours, and you know by the twitch of his nose that he is sniffing the air again. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh.” You go up on your toes, and place the lightest kiss you can manage on the corner of Nick's mouth. His lips move as he swallows. When you don't immediately move away his head turns to yours. 

You wondered if that first, and only kiss, had been a fluke. That a perfect storm of events had culminated in the way your lips met. You know now that it wasn't. The way his mouth glides across yours sends shivers down your spine. His hands rise automatically to that spot just above your hips, turning you until your chest is against his. Heat sparks in all the places where your bodies touch. 

“So,” he says when your lips part, his voice uneven. “Movie?” 

You lick the taste of him from your lips. “Let's...get some food first. Then movie.” You finally open your eyes and find that he's starring at your mouth like he wants another taste. “Maybe I can talk you into dancing.”


	4. Strawberries and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter includes physical violence. For those of you who came here for the fluff and have no desire to read the sad things, please stop reading after the point where Nick smells gunmetal. The next chapter will contain enough information that you wont be missing anything.

Dinner is a stop at a food truck just outside the theater. As the cold night closes in, you order streetside tacos and bottled drinks, he goes for tortas. His arm slinks shyly around you and you lay your head on his shoulders as the nights of the city flicker on. 

The movie is formulaic, and riddled with tropes, but you find yourself not caring because he is right there beside you. The broadness of his shoulder skims against yours as you both reach for the same pile of snacks that he insisted on picking up. Every now and then you turn your head to catch him looking at you like you are priceless, and he can't believe that you are here. 

The smile you give him tells him that you can't believe it either. 

“Is the date over?” he asked when the credits rolled. 

“It doesn't have to be.” 

Dessert came next, stopping by yet another late night food truck where massive waffles were piled high with sugar and jellies and whipped cream. There is no clean way to eat it, you realize as you two take a seat on the edge of a drizzling fountain. 

“Of all the places you'd want to go for vacation,” you say as you navigate the best corner to attack your late night waffle from. “And you pick Alaska?” 

“I like the cold,” he admits, swirling a practically useless fork through sugary foam.“And the snow.” 

“What are you doing in LA?” 

“Eating waffles.” 

You laugh, and he smiles. 

“I like your laugh,” he tells you. “You laugh like you mean it.” 

“With you? I do.” 

The look he gives you borders on awe. 

“What?” you ask. “What is it?” 

“I think you are magic,” he whispers, like he's afraid to say it out loud. “I don't mean like wands or elves or Brights, I mean like...like-” He looks down, and you don't even think he's seeing the slow escape of a single strawberry. “Like the kind of magic that comes from a perfect BBQ or piles of snow. It's...it's all natural.” 

You bite your lip. “You need to stop asking your partner for advice, Nick. You make a person feel special all on your own.” 

“Yeah?” He perks up. 

“Yes.” His ears flick as he smiles and you barely resist the urge to reach out and touch them. “So. You like the cold, and the snow.” 

“Yeah, I mean, can't you just imagine it? Waking up one morning to a deep gray sky, a fire roaring in one of those big cast iron stoves. A pile of blankets and-” He cuts off, seeming to realize he's rambling. “I just like the idea is all. Why? Where would you go for a...a dream vacation?” 

You find yourself thinking about Alaska. It was not number one on your list of potential vacation destinations, but now that you have listened to Nick describe it you find you can't quite stop thinking about it. “Well, Alaska doesn't sound horrible.” 

“You don't have to say that.” 

“You're right, I don't...but I just did. I mean, okay, so, sure. Most people might choose Disneyland or Milan, or Japan as their dream vacation destination, but you, darling, you went for non traditional. And that? I like.” 

Nick leans in for a kiss. Your body goes warm, tingling from lips to toes in anticipation. Your eyes are already half closed when you realize that he isn't moving in any further. In fact, he's pulled away. Confused, and a little embarrassed, you open your eyes again and look around. 

“What's wrong?” you ask. 

His gaze is fixated not on you, but behind. The warmth from them is gone, replaced instead by something distant and uncomfortable. There is a line of visible tension running through his shoulders. A spike of uncertainty spears through you. 

“Nick?”

“I smell gunmetal.” 

Your uncertainty devolves into fear. You freeze, uncertain what to do, if anything. Just having a gun can't be a problem, right? It's America. Lots of people own guns. You try to comfort yourself with this, but there is something about the look on Nick's face that tells you the comfort of statistics is not going to help much in this situation. 

“Jakoby,” a deep, guttural voice says. 

“Hello, Isaac.” Nicks words are stilted. His fingers flex around the cup of waffle that he holds. 

“You know this Unblooded?” a lighter, but no less guttural voice asks. 

Nick's lips form a stark, empty line. He remains still as stone. 

A group of orcs saunters around you. At first glance there is a distinct similarity about them, not just in clothing choices; though they must all shop at the same place, but in the pattern of their spots, and the shape of their eyes. They are related, you decide, and, by the length of their sharp teeth, blooded. 

“We all know this one,” another orc says. “He's the cop.” 

A hiss of contempt ripples through the group. Blue lips peel back to reveal chomping teeth. 

“Unblooded and badged,” the smallest of them says. Her eyes, lined with the brightest blue you've ever seen, flick up and down Nick dismissively. The thick, golden earrings that dangle from her lobes glitter as her head tilts in your direction. “And mixing.” 

You hear a sharp intake of breath. It's your own. Anger, unexpected and hot, flares through you. You don't know who these people are, but they are making Nick uncomfortable and you do not like that. The only thing that keeps you in your seat is knowing that at least one of them is carrying a gun. 

Nick shifts his weight, and somehow you find his shoulder is in front of yours. It's not much, the smallest of movements, but it speaks volumes on its own. Other than that, he remains completely still. They notice. 

“Look at that,” Isaac snorts. “Showing some teeth.” 

“Come on guys. We don't have to do this.” Nick shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Shara, how bad does an orc have to be that he can't even get another round tooth to look at him?” 

Shara's runs her tongue across her teeth. “Pretty bad.” 

“Can't even shoot for elf flesh. Gotta settle for human.” Isaac makes a sound that comes out like a snarl. “But it's always been like this for you, hasn't it Jakoby? Always chasing after humans. Trying to dress, like them, act like them. Even tried to take one to prom. What was her name?” Isaac steps forward, his eyes glittering and angry. There is a chip on the side of one of his long teeth, making it look jagged, and sharp. A thick lattice chain with a symbol you don't recognize glitters around his neck. “Laura? Barbra?” 

“Becky.” Nick says, growling out the name. “Her name was Becky.” 

“You know,” one of the others says, reaching out with a thick-fingered hand to tug at the collar of your shirt. “This one isn't so bad for a human. Nice skin.” He brushes his finger over your cheek. You yank back. 

Nick surges to his feet, and it's this action that everyone seems to have been waiting for. A circle forms around him, shoulder to shoulder, blocking you out. You stumble, your waffle falling to the ground. 

“Hey!” you shout. 

“What are you going to do, Unblooded?” Isaac demands, ignoring you. “You gonna show teeth?” 

Nick's jaw clenches until the speckles on his cheeks go pale, but he says nothing. You can see his hands clench and unclench. There is a trembling anger there and you wonder what would happen if it snapped. 

“Course he won't,” Shara's voice drips with disgust. “Not even for his piece of flesh.” 

Your name leaves Jakoby's lips. He says it softly at first, barely more than a whisper. 

“What was that?” Isaac demands, “What did you just say?” 

“That is my date, not a piece of flesh.” Jakoby's lips twist upwards. “And my date has a name.” He repeats it again, and this time it comes out as a snarl. 

“What the fuck do I care what your date's name is? All that matters, Jakoby, is that you made the mistake of walking down this street, dressed like a fucking elf, with a piece of human flesh-” 

You aren't sure who is more surprised by the strike; you, Nick, or the gathered orcs. But Nick's swing connects with Isaac's cheek with a resounding strike. Isaac's head snaps to the side. A spray of blood gets caught against his teeth, turning them from pearl white to angry red. 

There is a moment of absolute motionlessness. You forget to breathe. You don't completely understand the complexities of what's going on, but you know enough to know that what Jakoby just did broke some kind of rule. The circle of orcs all look at him like he just stepped on a mouse for fun. 

“You drew my blood,” Isaac says, disbelieving.

Nick's eyes are wide. He looks at his still closed fist and the spattering of blood that dapples the leaden blue. He looks up. Your gazes meet and you can see the regret that fills them. 

Isaac's strike catches Nick in the stomach, doubling him over. A second hit to the back of his head sends Nick to the ground. Someone's foot flies out, connecting with his jaw. Blood and spittle come out in a high arc, landing on damp concrete. Shara's fist slams into Nick's ear. After that the strikes come in quick, ugly succession. The sound of fists slamming into flesh becomes a terrible drumming. You keep waiting for Nick to fight back, but he doesn't. He takes every hit without more than a grunt of pain. 

“Stop it! Stop!” you cry, but they don't hear you. No one seems to. 

You spin in a circle, looking for someone, anyone to step in and help. But all you see are uncomfortable looks and diverted gazes. One lone teen is capturing the entire incident on his phone. When he sees you looking he smiles, abashed, and runs off. 

“Remember your place, Unblooded!” Isaac is snarling as his fist come down again and again on Nick's back. “Remember what you are.” 

Nick can't answer, there is blood spilling from between his lips. His hands are planted on the ground, his head bowed as if he is receiving benediction rather than a beating. A heavy foot slams into his back, driving him flat against the ground. 

“Nick?” you call, unable to help yourself. “God, Nick!” 

He doesn't look up. You dive for him, and Shara catches you. With incredible strength she shoves you backwards, her lips twisted into an ugly grin. Unable to stop yourself, you throw your body towards Nick again. Shara, faster than you expected, catches you for a second time. Her hands dig into your shoulders, giving you a hard shake of warning. 

“This one has more fire than Jakoby.” She turns and spits at him. Her eyes meet yours. “You deserve better than an unwanted round tooth.” 

She shoves you back before you can answer. You stumble, landing hard on the ground. Your head connects with the side of the fountain, and all you can see before your vision starts to go blurry is a single, whip cream dappled strawberry falling into the fountain.


	5. Concussion

“I don't want to get another scan, I want someone to tell me how Nick is doing.” Your voice is hoarse, and you aren't sure if it's because you are exhausted, because of the concussion, or if it's because you haven't seen Nick in five hours, and no one will tell you why. 

The nurse gives you a tight lipped look. Her badge dangles from a I-Heart-My-Veteran lanyard. A single pin thanking her for fifteen years of service is perched above a picture that is at least that old. She carries fourteen hours of work beneath her eyes and a viscous smudge on her Felix the Cat scrubs. 

“The doctor wants to make sure that you don't have any internal bleeding.” 

“I got hit in the head.” You motion to the large ice pack that you are still holding to the stitches there. “I am fine. I have all eleven stitches. I want to know about Nick.” 

She doesn't look at you. Her entire world is the clipboard in front of her, and the orders printed on them. “If you don't want to receive any more care, I'll have to have you sign an AMA form.” 

You toss the ice pack down. Your head still hurts, despite the pain relievers they gave you. The sound of the fluorescent lighting is like bees humming in your brain. The anesthetic is wearing off, and betadine has dyed your skin. The term 'over it' does not even come close to how you feel about this hospital. “Then will someone tell me where Nick is?” 

“Ma'am, I can't give you that information,” she repeats. “If you want to leave, I'll have to get the doctor.” She turns, and something about seeing nothing but her broad back and her short, crimped hair makes you angry. 

“We came in together,” you try to argue. Your heart is in your throat. The last thing you saw was Nick surrounded and beaten. Was he okay? Was he even alive? “We came in together, why can't you just tell me what's going on?” 

She turns back to you, one hand on the door handle of your tiny, emergency room cubicle. “Ma'am, you have already stated that you are not family. You are not his emergency contact. Coming in from the same emergency doesn't give you much in the way of rights.” Forced politeness is etched into every weary line. 

“Do you have a problem with me asking about my boyfriend's health?” Your mouth doesn't even stumble over the title. 

If you hadn't been looking for it, you would have missed it. Distaste tugs at the edges of her lips. “I am not allowed to tell you about the status of another patient without consent of the patient or next of kin.” She holds up her hands. “Now, if you want to-” 

“I want another nurse.” 

Her cheeks, round and soft, concave for a moment. “Another nurse isn't going to tell you anything.” 

At this point, you don't care. Everything has clicked, and you know that she's no different from the orcs who beat Nick. She might not be kicking or hitting. Her assault is one of ugly looks and pursed lips. She clutches her clipboard to her chest like it's armor. 

“You're right,” you say. “Another nurse might not tell me anything. But another nurse might actually look me in the eye without sneering.” 

Her cheeks go pink as she yanks the door open. “It may be a while before you can get a replacement.” 

She disappears down the hallway before you can think of a witty comeback. You lay back against the stiff, gurney mattress and plop the ice pack back to your head, hoping it will do some kind of good. You pick up your phone and think about texting June. You put your phone back down. June is the kind of person who would give up the rest of her night to come and take care of you, and worry over you, and probably snap that nurse into pieces. You don't want to put her in that position, You might be willing to tell a bigot nurse that you don't want her near you, but imposing on your best friend feels like crossing a line. You pick up the remote for the tiny television and promise that you'll tell her first thing in the morning. 

You flip absently through the channels, unable to concentrate on anything. You pick up your phone again, and try to call Nick. It's futile. It goes right to voicemail. You throw the phone down again. 

“C'mon, Nick,” you mutter. “Please be okay.” 

An hour goes by, and another one. You watch half an episode of some crime show you can't even remember the name of before you give up and crawl out of the bed. The floor is cold beneath your feet, and your head gives a plaintive throb. You can't just hang out and wait for something to happen anymore. 

“Excuse me,” you say, poking your head out into the hall. The entire emergency area is shaped like a big U, with L shaped desks perched every five rooms. Half a dozen hospital personnel are moving from one task to the next with all the grace of a ballet. A nurse looks up from her computer and notices you.

“Yes?” she asks. Her face is kind, youthful, and perhaps a dash naive. “Can I help you?” 

“Can anyone tell me if Nick Jakoby is okay?” 

Her eyes flick down to her computer. “Jakoby?” she confirms. When you nod she starts to type. “He's in surgery.” 

Your heart sinks. Your head goes light. You can feel every stitch on your brow. “Surgery?” 

She reads the screen in front of her again. “Yes. It looks like he went in about an hour ago. Do you want me to let you know when he gets out?” 

“I...yes...I...are you sure?” 

“Ma'am?” she surges up from her seat. You didn't even know you were stumbling until her arm wraps around your back. “Ma'am you need to get back to your room.” 

“I need to see him. I need to see Nick.” 

“You must be the date.” A woman's voice says. It's not the nurse, or the other nurse, or even June. 

An orc woman, her spots pale with age, is standing just outside the door to your room. Her height and bulk is enough to fill the entire doorframe. Pale brown corduroy pants and a dark button down shirt do nothing to hide the thickness of her. 

“I...excuse me?” 

“I'm Elizabeth Jakoby. I'm Nick's mother.” She steps up and takes your other arm. “I've got her, thank you.” 

The nurse doesn't question it, and you are too shocked to say anything until you are back in your room, and she's tucking the hospital blanket around your legs. 

“Well now, let's have a look at you.” Warm fingers turned satin with age grip your chin. You find your head turning this way and that. Her face is round, with sloped cheekbones and sharp eyes. “I bet without that bump you've got a fine face.” 

“Uhmm.” You fumble with your words, not entirely sure how to respond. You hadn't expected to meet Nick's mother anytime soon, much less under these circumstances. She looks so much like him, you think. The same eyes, the same nose. “Thanks?” 

“Employed?” 

“Yes.” 

“Married?” 

“No!” You blink, wondering what is going on. “No, I'm not married. I've never been married.” 

The look she gives you is not entirely kind, but it's not angry either. Resignation tinged with confusion. Quietly, she pulls up a chair and takes a seat at your side. You aren't sure if she is more or less intimidating sitting down. “When they called me, I assumed my son had been hurt on the job.” She settles a massive bag in her lap. “Imagine my surprise then when I show up and he's not in uniform.” 

“We were on a date.” 

“Yes, I gathered that much. Especially since when I showed up to offer my son comfort before they took him into surgery, he couldn't do anything but ask me how you were doing.” 

You can feel your blush burn all the way up to your stitches. “He was worried about me?” 

She sighs and sits back. “Do you know how I met Nick's father?” 

“I don't.” 

“It was easy. We were the only two non blooded orcs who had no direct relation. I married his father, and his sister married my brother. Do you understand?” The look she gives you is direct, and silently demanding. 

“It was convenient.” 

“In the beginning,” she admits. “But we grew to care for one another, and respect. Respect is important.” She sighs and looks you over. “There is little about you that seems worthy of my respect.” 

“Excuse me?” 

She shrugs, completely unmoved by the hurt in your voice. “I was hoping, when I walked in this room, that I'd see a good orc woman. Blooded, if possible, not if necessary. But instead I find a soft toothed human. And worse, it seems my son is...attached.” 

You sit there, stunned to speechlessness. For a moment all you can hear is the lights, and the sound of something beeping in the distance. “I'm sorry?” 

“Don't be,” she says, standing. This close you can see just how incredibly tall she is. “Just end the relationship you have with my son.” 

“What? Why?” You sit up, anger making you forget that you are supposed to be rest. The bigoted nurse was bad enough, but hearing this from Nick's mother is something else entirely. 

The look she gives you is withering. “They just wheeled my son into a surgery room and you have the audacity to ask me why?” She shakes her head. “Not only are you human but your are an idiot too.” 

You swallow around a lump in your throat. Her words hurt, even more because they are true. Even through the haze of pain meds and a mild concussion you remember what the orcs said. They hadn't been happy to see Nick, but they'd been even angrier that he was out with a human. Had it been your fault. 

“I never meant to-” 

She holds up a single hand “I know you didn't. You just didn't think.” Annoyed she stands up. “It would be better for everyone if you let this situation break you apart. I don't want to see my son hurt.” 

“You think breaking up wont hurt Nick?” 

She doesn't answer until she's already halfway out the door. “Maybe, but at least he'll be alive.”


End file.
